


Sun in Glory, City in Ruins

by inlovewithnight



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore
Genre: Humiliation, M/M, Punishment, Revenge, references to slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:34:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24915436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight
Summary: Achilles lifted his head, suddenly aware of the silence of the camp, a stillness that such a number of men could never hold. Unnatural, then. He rose to his feet, taking his sword properly in hand. “Reveal yourself.” He waited a moment, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. “Whichever god has come to taunt me, reveal yourself."
Relationships: Achilles/Apollo (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 35
Collections: Nonconathon 2020





	Sun in Glory, City in Ruins

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elpollodiablo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elpollodiablo/gifts).



The dust had settled and the sun lingered near the horizon, casting fingers of gold through the Greek camp. Achilles sat before his tent, sword balanced across his thighs and glowing warm in the heavy light. He could not say how long he had been seated there, or what thoughts passed through his mind; he was aware of nothing until the breeze lifted, carrying the scent of myrtle and mountain laurel.

Achilles lifted his head, suddenly aware of the silence of the camp, a stillness that such a number of men could never hold. Unnatural, then. He rose to his feet, taking his sword properly in hand. “Reveal yourself.” He waited a moment, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. “Whichever god has come to taunt me, reveal yourself. I swear I have no patience for your kind anymore. Speak your piece and leave me.”

The breeze swirled around him for a moment, the mingled scent of the flowers crawling down his throat until he nearly gagged. “Always so proud, Achilles,” the breeze murmured, before gathering itself into a pillar and solidifying into the form of a man. 

He stood no taller or broader than Achilles himself; his hair was golden but no more so than any other fair man of Greece’s army; only his eyes gave him away as what he was, and not because of anything that could be described in words but simply because they were what they were: the eyes of a god who did not care to hide it.

“Lord Apollo.” Achille did not bow his head. He wasn’t so foolish that he would scorn the god to his face, but he had not lied: he had no patience remaining for their kind. “Do you come to me as Aegletes, Agraeus, Moiragetes? Phoebus, eternal and true?”

The god’s mouth twisted slightly. “Parnopius, if any. Expeller of locusts. You and your Myrmidons are similar enough.”

“You’ll forgive me, my lord, but I know that isn’t true. Your divine father himself said that things are fated to occur, when he stopped me from taking the city before its hour.” He took a step closer to the god, nostrils flaring at the scent of not only myrtle and laurel, but gold heated near to melting. “You cannot expel me. You cannot lie a hand upon me.”

The god’s smile widened, and Achilles had a fraction of a moment to wonder at his own boldness, and the absence of the fear that should have followed it. Fear had burned away from him, in these days before Troy. Only traces of it had remained in his soul before, and now they were gone. He felt no stronger for the lack of fear; if anything, he was weary and empty, as if the loss of fear had let some of his humanity drain into the sand with Patroclus and Hector’s blood. 

“The first of what you said is true, Achilles,” Apollo said. “I cannot expel you. The rules were set long ago, and my agreement binds me. But the second…”

The palm that settled on Achilles’ shoulder was hot as a brand, and he gasped, trying to jerk away. Apollo didn’t move; his muscles and tendons didn’t flex. He simply didn’t allow Achilles to go. This was the difference between man and god, and if Achilles’ fear did not return to him, the ghost of it stirred in his heart.

“I think perhaps you have forgotten your place, son of Thetis.” Apollo’s voice warmed the air around them, first like the touch of sun on skin but growing less comfortable with every word. “Nereids are not mortal, but neither are they goddesses. Your mother encouraged you to think yourself above your station.”

“I am more than human.” Achilles’ fists clenched at his sides as the heat grew more intolerable. “Zeus himself stepped in to keep my rage from overcoming the Fates. You saw it, my Lord.”

“I did. My father spoke his mind clearly. It would have been very difficult to ignore.” Apollo lifted his hand, bringing it to Achille’s cheek in a slow caress that left the skin reddened and inflamed. “I’ll allow you more than human. But still, you are no god, and still, you have forgotten your place.”

Achilles drew a slow breath, clenching his stomach against the pain. He would not allow himself weakness. He would not allow himself fear. He would cast defiance in the teeth of the gods and Fates, as he had since birth. “Have you come, then to remind me of my place?”

“Yes.” Apollo lifted his hand again, allowing Achilles a moment without pain blossoming anew on his skin. “But I know that you are a stubborn creature. A reminder will not be enough to sink through your skull, will it? You have to be taught a _lesson_ , Achilles. One that will take some time, and some concentration.” 

Apollo gestured at the camp behind them, silent and frozen, and Achilles realized that not only had the life of the camp gone still, but the sea beyond it had as well. “Hence why I’ve gone to so much effort, and risked the displeasure of so many of my kin. Do you think Poseidon takes kindly to me stopping the waves? That my sister appreciates her stags and dogs gone frozen in the fields? Cronus himself is annoyed with me for overstepping my bounds. And yet here I am, Achilles. This is how much you have annoyed me.”

“I’ve done nothing to offend you, my Lord.”

The back of the god’s hand caught him squarely across the face, knocking him to one knee. “And now he _lies_ to me. More stubborn a creature than I thought.”

“Phoebus Apollo, what have I done that—”

“I told you, today I am Apollo Parnopius, and you will be reminded of your place beneath my foot and the feet of all my kind.” He gestured, and Achilles found himself forced to stand upright again, the place where the god had struck him burning like a brand. “If you truly can’t remember what you’ve done, then I will remind you, but it will do you no good to continue to lie.”

Achilles clenched his jaw until a sharp spike of pain rose in his teeth. “If you speak of Troilus, my Lord, what I did was at the behest of Lady Athena. Take the matter up with your kinswoman, not with me.”

This time the god’s hand struck in a clenched fist, at the center of his chest, and knocked Achilles flat on his back on the ground. “You may be sure that Athena and I have had words on the matter.” The heat radiating from the god was nearly unbearable now, a heat without radiance that made Achille’s skin ache. “She told you that it would please her if the boy did not see adulthood. Fair. Many of your kind don’t. But she assured me, most clearly, that she did _not_ tell you to profane my temple with the boy’s violation, or his blood, or his death. Those were your choice. With _those_ , you offended me most gravely, and for those, you will suffer.”

Achilles lifted himself to his elbows, but could rise no higher. “I am a warrior, my Lord. I carry out the commands I’m given to kill a target. You think I would assume that the Lady of War hid so many riddles in her command?”

“I think even the most slow-witted of your kind can be taught not to profane a temple.” Apollo slid his foot beneath Achilles’ side and pushed, rolling him onto his stomach, still held to the ground by the weight of the god’s will. “But you came here, to wage war against a city I have chosen, a royal family that has my favor, and you killed them off bit by bit in the most shameful manners you could conceive of. You supported Agamemnon in his continued violation of my sacred places. You watched him ruin the daughter of my priest, and you laughed.” His foot settled on the center of Achilles’ back, pressing the burn left by his fist into the ground, his weight implacable as a stone as he leaned down to speak close to Achilles’ ear. “Tell me again, dog of Peleus’ litter, how you have done nothing to offend me.”

It was difficult to draw breath, even harder to form words, but Achilles was more than mortal—he told himself this again and again as his ribs strained and his skin blistered under Apollo’s touch. “The Trojans have also offended you, have they not? Cassandra scorned your touch. Paris insulted your kinswomen. Are my transgressions so great compared to theirs?”

The pressure on his back eased the slightest bit, enough that Achilles could turn his face to the side and draw a breath, cutting his gaze up toward Apollo. “I won’t call it clever, but an interesting gambit, at least, dear dog.” The god tilted his head, considering Achilles intently. “It’s no good in the end, though, you know. Cassandra has had her punishment from my own hand, and her fate goes on still beyond this day, with time for her to think more about how she failed to serve.”

His fingers curled in Achilles’ hair, the pain diffused and almost insignificant compared to the burns where Apollo had touched him directly. “Paris’ punishment and reward are far out of my hands and never were of interest to me. And you have struck down Troilus and Hector, both the blood of Troy, both who served me well and with reverence.” The god drew Achilles’ head back slowly, speaking in his ear again with greater ease. “So no, Achilles. There is no refuge for you here.”

Achilles dragged in a breath, then another, acutely aware that his throat was bared like a sacrificial sheep’s. “Very well,” he said finally, as Apollo’s heel ground into his back again. “I will accept my punishment as you see fit. I bow my head to you.”

The god’s laughter made the heat around them finally burst into light, and Achilles closed his eyes against it, shuddering as the skin of his face and arms drew tight and painful. “You haven’t bowed your head at all,” he said, twisting his hand in Achilles’ hair to draw his head even further back, his neck arched like the god’s own drawn bow. “And I don’t require your permission to do whatever I choose to you. The arrogance of you, Achilles. Your mother let you think yourself far above what you are. She may be a toad compared to my kind, but you are an insect.”

Achilles twisted, trying to turn his head to meet the god’s eyes. “Don’t speak of my mother.”

“I will do exactly as I please. If it amuses me, I will call Thetis to me from Phthia and have her on your own bedroll, while you watch. You are flawed to the core, Achilles. Your arrogance is twisted into your blood and bone.” He released Achilles’ hair and Achilles fell forward, his face striking hard against the ground. Blood ran from his nose, mixing with the dust, and Apollo laughed, reaching down to run his fingers through it. 

“No matter how many mortals we remind of your place, you insist on dragging yourselves above your station. I wish we could wipe out the lot of you and try again with something more obedient.” He pushed his foot under Achilles’ body and rolled him onto his back again, then thrust two fingers into Achilles’ mouth, driving the blood and dirt along his tongue. “Honestly, wiping out all of you and not replacing you with anything would be my preference. Let the nymphs and nereids give the sacrifices. It’s not as if they’re useful for anything else but a fuck now and then.”

Achilles gagged around Apollo’s fingers, trying to draw his head away and failing as the god’s will held him in place. Apollo laughed and pulled him to his feet, curving his hand around the back of Achilles’ skull and kissing him fiercely. His tongue thrust into Achilles’ mouth, sending heat lancing through him as sharp and agonizing as the god’s arrows. 

“Now, Achilles.” Apollo drew him into the tent, and for a moment Achilles’ eyesight was taken from him in the dimness. The god moved him easily, handling his body like a doll’s, and by the time Achilles could see again he was on his knees, bent over the curve of his own shield with his head bowed between his forearms. His hands lay helpless, stretched out before him, unresponsive to his efforts to move them, to take up a weapon or form a fist in his own defense, to fight.

“Achilles Pyrisous.” Apollo’s voice made the air within the tent throb with heat as well. His will did not extend to forcing Achilles to keep his eyes open, and Achilles closed them before the feeling of tears evaporating off the delicate surface was too much to bear. “Saved once from the fire, but today you’ll remember that fire is not mortals’ to scorn.”

Apollo’s hands on his body brought searing heat and pain again, and the god’s weight against his back was as if a mountain rested on him. Crushing, endless pain, wrapped in glowing heat, until it seemed to occur to Apollo that perhaps he was asking too much, and the heat and weight both retreated. Left with the simple fact of body against body, skin sticking with sweat, Achilles was able to draw breath again, though he still could neither struggle nor escape. 

Apollo drew his finger down Achilles’ spine, and a rush ran along beneath it, a sharp jolt that ran from his shoulders to root deep in his torso. Achilles shuddered under Apollo, his loins stirring and his body responding despite the fierce denial in his mind. He did not desire this. He did not ask for this. 

“Ah, Achilles.” Apollo’s breath was hot against his neck, rippling with laughter. “How high you mortals try to rise above yourselves. You think you have a choice how to respond to me. You think you have the ability to resist me. I am a god. Your kind were raised out of the muck by the whim of mine. Your body remembers where it came from, where the breath within it was raised, and it does as it’s told.”

The god’s hands moved over Achilles’ body again, from the base of his spine to his thighs, parting them easily and spreading Achilles open over his shield. His body continued to answer to Apollo’s desire; he could feel his own inner muscles relaxing, his body preparing itself to be breached without resistance. It had been years since he was a boy in light armor, offering his body up to his teachers in thanks for their training. He hardly remembered what it was to be touched this way—he had put all that aside with his youth, along with wooden swords and serving as cupbearer. 

He had slaves to carry his cup now; his blade was feared from one end of Greece to the other; he bowed to no man but Agamemnon, and even him, only because he chose to. He was Achilles. He was the greatest warrior of his age or any other. He was… he was favored, he was chosen, his mother had seen greatness in him at birth and taken steps to ensure it, to place him above other men.

And yet the edge of his shield bit into his abdomen as Apollo’s fingers pressed inside him, stretching him open carelessly. The god’s breath—an affectation, unneeded, perhaps only there at all to ensure that Achilles felt Apollo’s presence everywhere on his body—burned hot on the back of Achilles’ neck, ruffling his hair. 

His fingers withdrew and Achilles braced himself as best he could when his hands still wouldn’t respond to his will. His fingers couldn’t scramble against the blankets, he couldn’t push down or flex his shoulders to resist, all he could do was clench his stomach and lower his head, holding himself silent with sheer force of hate and will as Apollo breached his body again and thrust inside him. 

Achilles had heard the stories of pretty boys accosted by the god; he had heard the testimonies of priestesses in Apollo’s temples visited by their lord and left with golden-haired babies in good time. None of those stories had ever mentioned the raging heat forcing itself through soft-skinned places, delicate tissue shuddering away from a violation that didn’t belong there in so many ways. Perhaps Apollo didn’t feel the need to punish them like this. Perhaps they didn’t need to be brought low, as he said Achilles did.

“Proud Achilles,” the god murmured, his breath stirring Achilles’ hair again, searing the skin beneath it. “Know your place, and don’t forget again.”

When Apollo spilled inside him, the seed was hot as molten gold. The god was still for a moment, his hands heavy on Achille’s body, his breath searing the air around them. 

Achilles could see his weapons, arranged neatly just out of reach, placed just-so by the slave who cleaned them. His pride and his honor were bound up in those weapons, blessed on the forge and sanctified over and over again in battle, with every victory. He had always seen them as part of himself, as the root of his own greatness, along with the shield that Apollo defiled along with his body. Now they all seem no more than metal and wood and horn, bound up together like a child’s toy assembled from what was lying on the ground. 

They were no good to him now—even if he could reach them, Apollo’s will held him motionless, and even if he could move, mortal weapons in mortal hands could not harm a god. He was powerless. He was nothing.

Apollo sighed, a whirlwind of heated air over the back of Achilles’ neck. “There you are, dog. Now you understand.”

The god was gone between one heartbeat and the next, leaving Achilles alone with his shield and his bedroll, the camp once again alive outside his tent. One mercy—the tentflap was closed, allowing the hero of the Greeks time to gather himself.

The mess that dripped and burned Achilles’ thighs was bright, and left burn marks like fingers tracing over the skin. He cleaned between his legs, traced with oil the bruise left across his abdomen by the shield’s lip, then dressed himself in a clean tunic. The rest of the burn marks that he could still feel over so much of his body were now invisible to the eye, ghosts that only he would know had come to stay.

Achilles stepped outside his tent and looked over the plain that separated them from the city walls. Troy stood in silent glory, impassive, waiting. He could imagine a golden haze surrounding it, the mark of its protection by Apollo. Beyond that, the glow of Zeus’ indifferent favor, with Aphrodite’s fickle-won loyalty due to Paris’ useless lust. The only god who claimed those walls that Achilles could respect was warlike Ares, who already held Achilles’ pledge. 

Ares would accept Achilles’ blood regardless of the cause he died for; he had spilled enough in the god’s name in his time.

“You’ll burn,” he said softly, eyes tracking over the walls of Troy. “Every arm’s length of you. Wood and brick and stone. I’ll burn you to ashes, and see the bones of your children plowed under with the ashes, so the ground will grow wild with brambles and be unfit to build or plant. No city will stand here again. No kings or soldiers will walk this ground. I will see it left for beasts and weeds, before I die. Thus falls the favored of Apollo.”

Far, far away, he heard a cackle and a shriek, perhaps a sea-bird over the Trojan waves, perhaps one of the hags who measured and cut the threads of Fate. It no longer mattered to him.

“You,” he called, pointing at a slave girl passing with a jug of water. “Leave your task and go to Agamemnon. Tell them you were sent by Achilles. All will let you pass.”

The girl paled, but then stood tall—perhaps she was the child of a warrior herself. “What message, my lord?”

“Tell him I wish to meet with him to plan the sack of Troy.” His eyes raked over the walls again, and the dim haze left in blessing by idle gods. “We have a great deal of work to do.”

**Author's Note:**

> Epithets:
> 
> Aegletes - The radiant god  
> Agraeus - The hunter  
> Moiragetes - Leader of fate  
> Phoebus - The shining one  
> Parnopius - Expeller of locusts  
> Pyrisous - Saved from the fire


End file.
